"No," replied Sernine, "the battle is lost. You have no right to shoot. I am not defending myself."
He took out two revolvers and threw them on the floor.
"Humbug!" M. Weber repeated, implacably. "Aim straight at his heart, lads! At the least movement, fire! At the least word, fire!"
There were ten men there. He placed five more in position. He pointed their fifteen right arms at the mark. And, raging, shaking with joy and fear, he snarled:
"At his heart! At his head! And no pity! If he stirs, if he speaks . . . shoot him where he stands!"
Sernine smiled, impassively, with his hands in his pockets. Death was there, waiting for him, at two inches from his chest, at two inches from his temples. Fifteen fingers were curled round the triggers.
"Ah," chuckled M. Weber, "this is nice, this is very nice! . . . And I think that this time we've scored . . . and it's a nasty look-out for you, Master Lupin! . . ."
He made one of his men draw back the shutters of a large air-hole, which admitted a sudden burst of daylight, and he turned toward Altenheim. But, to his great amazement, the baron, whom he thought dead, opened his eyes, glazed, awful eyes, already filled with all the signs of the coming dissolution. He stared at M. Weber. Then he seemed to look for somebody and, catching sight of Sernine, had a convulsion of anger. He seemed to be waking from his torpor; and his suddenly reviving hatred restored a part of his strength.
He raised himself on his two wrists and tried to speak.
"You know him, eh?" asked M. Weber.